


A Light To Guide You In The Dark (Warmed By The Fire's Glow)

by regionals



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy Has Intimacy Issues, Character Study, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Found Family, Government Conspiracy, I the author would sacrifice anything for Eleven, M/M, Post S3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Will Byers is a good egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: Billy’s hands end up cradling Steve’s face again, feeling something warm blooming behind his ribs, and maybe they’re a little pathetic — lying in a hotel room in Ohio, getting misty eyed as they make out — but Steve feels like home and everything holy and it’s fine.





	A Light To Guide You In The Dark (Warmed By The Fire's Glow)

**Author's Note:**

> **Playlists for this fic:**
> 
> [Main Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0B4d3Bch5jh0Alps3g7Zxq?si=a3CKwAunQm2sS5zEwWBV_w)   
>  [Steve's Mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2vusY7siqqOcNQ2ujKzFH0?si=0hOkpzPDTK6LOz0PoQrSyA)   
>  [Billy's Mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3KW6UjO7fLHgfRPpOngkE5?si=FIf-Fu3hSOq7aryk9K_Fqg)
> 
> all links lead to spotify
> 
> i call this: the same basic premise as the last fic i posted but with variations in the tropes and ideas i used and also i explored more on how billy would interact with will and eleven specifically because the duffers suck and missed out on an opportunity with that :^)
> 
> anyways i read over this and fixed any spelling errors and wonky sentences that i could but i am not god and probably missed some shit that im gonna find in like 3 months its ok dont worry about it

Billy doesn’t have friends. He has the kind of friends that he used to hang out with at school, the kind he ate lunch with, the kind he went to parties with, but he doesn’t have any _friends._ He doesn’t have friends that he can go on a surprise road trip to a different city just for the fuck of it, friends that he can lie in the grass next to, talking about nothing and everything while watching the stars or the clouds, friends that he actually has something with, friends that make him a better person, make him the kind of person he’s always wanted to be, make him someone that his _mama would be proud of_. He doesn’t have those kinds of friends.

He doesn’t have any friends like that, until he does.

*

Neil leaves.

Billy isn’t there when it happens. He’s in the hospital, in a coma or otherwise incapacitated for half the time he’s there, and barely able to move or talk or do anything other than stare at the fucking TV that’s on the wall, playing the same five game shows in what seems like a loop of words and large quantities of numbers the other half of the time. One day — a few weeks before he’s supposed to be released from the hospital, to go home, to start physical therapy at one of the smaller hospitals in Hawkins, and a few weeks after what is hopefully his last surgery — Max drops by.

She drops by once or twice a week, usually on the weekends, and Billy usually sees Susan or Harrington or that Wheeler girl or Jonathan Byers in the hallway, making sure she got to the room alright, before backing away from the door and leaving, presumably to wait in a different part of the hospital. _One of them must live here,_ he thinks, because he can’t imagine anyone wanting to drive Max all the way from Hawkins to Chicago every single week. It’s a long drive.

This day specifically is _different._ Max looks upset, more upset than she usually does, upset in a way that isn’t subtle, that doesn’t hang in the air as this unspoken shadow of a feeling between them. His voice sounds uncharacteristically quiet, rough, grainy in a way he isn’t used to. It sort of hurts to speak, but when she sits down in the chair next to the bed, after setting this week’s bouquet of white gardenias in the window, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

It takes her a few minutes to respond. Maybe six months ago, before the Mind- _whatever they called it_ possessed him, he would’ve snapped at her, but he feels something in his chest, something that isn’t a barely healed wound — and he realizes it’s patience. _Patience._ She says, “Your stupid dad left my mom.” Her voice is thick.

His response doesn’t take much thinking. He coughs a few times and it fucking _hurts_ to cough, but between coughing and recovering from coughing, he manages to say, “You’re both better off without him, Maxine. He’s fucking _poison._ _”_

She nods, because she’s not stupid — she _knows._

*

It’s Harrington that brings him home from the hospital. Max, the psychic one, and Little Byers are with him.

Max says something about Susan having to work, something about how _god forbid that asshole sticks around for his sick son,_ and Billy laughs for a few seconds before groaning, because, _ow._ Ow. He remembers something else about how they had to cut through his breast bone, about how everything had to be _wired shut,_ a few times just to fix all the damage, and _ow._

One of his doctors — the nice blond one — had handed him a stuffed koala from the gift shop a few weeks before he’d gotten released, telling him to hold it in his arms every time he needs to cough or sneeze or do anything involving involuntary chest movement on his part.

Little Byers — _Will,_ he overhears — sits in the passenger’s seat. Max sits in the backseat behind Will, and the psychic one helps Harrington get Billy’s arms into a winter coat, before helping him into the backseat, right in the middle, sandwiched between Max and the psychic one.

The drive is weird. Billy can’t quite move, and he doesn’t complain. The psychic one — who says her name is Jane, when he asks — keeps wiping blood from her nose and Billy can’t _move,_ the car doesn’t jostle him, and he doesn’t complain. Sometimes he looks up, making eye contact with Harrington through the rear view mirror, but stupid Harrington always looks away, back to the road, every time Billy looks at his eyes. He just hugs the stupid koala, because he doesn’t have a choice, because the stupid koala is kind of the only thing keeping him grounded right now.

*

Walking proves to be more difficult than he would have thought. He’s hardly done more than walk around his hospital room for a few minutes at a time, and that was with the help of doctors and physical therapists, and only within the past month or so. He’s out of breath halfway up the driveway, his legs fucking _ache,_ and both Harrington and Little Byers grip his arms tight, not letting go until he’s past the threshold of the house, and situated on the couch in the living room.

Harrington disappears after awhile, to take Little Byers home, but Max and Jane stay. He can hear Max moving around in another part of the house and Jane sits on the floor in front of him, watching him with her doe eyes. She looks — _wise,_ he thinks. She looks wise beyond her years, and with great difficulty, Billy leans forward, looking her in the eyes, and says, “Thank you,” because he hasn’t gotten the chance to say it yet, and because he knows she’s one of the only reasons he’s even alive right now.

“We’re friends,” she explains. “Friends help each other.” She places a hand on his cheek, rubs her thumb in a semi-circle under his eye, and says, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Coming from this little girl, for some reason, means a lot, and Billy says, “Thank you,” again.

*

Harrington comes back an hour later, with a pack of Marlboro reds and clippers.

Billy’s holding the koala and staring at the TV. Not watching — just staring. Jane is still on the floor in front of him, but she’s turned around towards the TV as well. Billy looks up from the TV, neck stiff, and makes eye contact with Harrington. His hair is a little longer than the last time Billy remembers seeing him, which was… He’s not sure how long ago. He doesn’t know the date, either — just knows that it’s cold, six in the evening, and already getting dark out. It freaks him out, because the last time he was really _conscious_ of anything, it was right at the end of June.

He snaps out of it when Harrington — _Steve_ — says, “Hi,” to him.

Jane looks up at Steve and beams.

He smiles back at her, something polite and soft, and says, “Do you think you could go keep Max company? I’m gonna take care of Billy.”

_Take care._ Billy wants to make a comment, to say that it sounds like he wants to kill him, but he doesn’t. He rubs his thumb over a patch of fake fur on the koala and his eyes follow Jane as she leaves the room. Steve sets the cigarettes down on the coffee table, but keeps the clippers in his hands. Billy just watches him, watches him shift back and forth on his feet.

Billy finally says, “Hi,” back to him.

“Hey. Uh. Look. I know we’re not friends, or whatever, but pretty much all Susan does is drink wine and _cry_ , when she’s not at work _,_ and since your shitty dad left, I’ve been — I’ve been helping out, mostly for Max. Point is — she gets home in an hour, and she’s going to crack open a bottle cheap chardonnay, then sit in her bedroom and not do a goddamn thing. _So._ _”_ He holds the clippers up. “I’m gonna clean your face up, and cook you dinner. You have any complaints?”

Billy thinks about it, reaching up to rub at his jaw, and, _ah._ He has a beard. He doesn’t do beards. “No. What’s for dinner?”

“Do you like spaghetti? I make a mean spaghetti.”

“I like spaghetti, yeah.”

*

Steve’s gentle with him, helping him get into the bathroom, and making sure he’s comfortable on the chair that he’d dragged in there. Steve doesn’t act afraid to touch him, not like Max has been acting, not like anyone else has been acting, and it makes him feel _normal,_ or as close to normal as he can get right now.

Billy doesn’t look at himself in the mirror more than once, because what he sees _scares_ him, makes him feel like a different person, so he looks away. He can see his reflection out of the corner of his eye, and even that’s almost too much for him. He ends up focusing on Steve, using him as a focal point, using him to stay grounded, and it works. He can smell him, too — all artificial pine and whatever expensive shampoo he uses — when he steps in closer, with a ponytail holder stretched over his fingers. Billy tilts his head forward, trying not to jostle his chest, as Steve reaches for his hair.

He’s gentle about putting Billy’s hair up into a messy, haphazard bun, getting it out of the way for when he takes scissors to Billy’s face, muttering something about getting the hair short enough for the clippers. Steve’s moved on to the other side of his face when Billy asks, “What day is it?”

“October twenty seventh,” is his immediate answer.

When Billy doesn’t say or ask anything else, Steve starts talking to fill the silence.

“Your medical bills are being taken care of. Apparently, getting caught up in a government fuck up means they take care of you.”

“Government…?” Billy frowns, and looks up into his eyes. “What does the government have to do with — with what happened?” He has trouble catching his breath for long enough to talk, to ask questions, but he manages it. He sort of feels like he’s been dropped into the deep end of a pool, except the water is, apparently, a government conspiracy, and he’s _apparently_ caught in the middle of it.

“Oh, shit. You don’t know. Fuck. I assumed — I don’t know. I assumed Max would’ve… explained. I’m not — I’m not an expert on the situation, but… The government basically, like, ripped a hole in the, uh… space time continuum? Or some bullshit like that, I don’t know — the shitheads know more than I do — but basically, the government is responsible for the, uh, monsters, or whatever. What happened to you — the government is responsible for that, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you started getting checks in the mail. I mean — _shit,_ I get checks in the mail, and all I had was a shiner and a couple of broken ribs.” Steve is rambling.

Steve is rambling and Billy thinks that at another point in time, he would’ve told him to shut the fuck up, but he doesn’t. Max talks to him like anything she says is going to set him off, or upset him, or whatever, and Little Byers didn’t look him in the eye more than once or twice. Steve’s just _talking to him,_ like a normal person, and it’s nice. It’s nice. “I didn’t even think about the bills,” he says. “That’s — that’s good to know.”

Steve hums a little bit, and gently drapes a towel over Billy’s front side and shoulders, before grabbing the clippers, and switching them on. Billy moves his head a bit, letting Steve shave the beard off. He likes this — he likes the contact. He likes _feeling_ something on his face, the touch of another human, the vibrating of the clippers, and he doesn’t think about it when he says, “I forgot how nice,” one, two deep breaths, “it is to be touched.”

If he wasn’t paying attention, he might have missed the way Steve’s hand briefly caresses his cheek.

*

Steve’s right, about Susan. She gets home around seven, at which point he and Steve are sitting in the living room, eating spaghetti and watching reruns of _Three_ _’s Company._ She barely glances at Billy, gets a wine glass from the kitchen, then saunters to the back of the house, in the direction of the bedroom. He sees the bottle of chardonnay in her hand, and all he says is, “Jesus.”

“She’s been like this since — since you’ve been in the hospital,” Steve tells him. He keeps his voice low. “I don’t know the full situation, just that she drinks and cries. I’ve been — I’ve had to come over just about every night for a few weeks, now, to cook dinner for your si — for Max, since your dad disappeared.” He sounds a little pissed, too — not about cooking for Max, but about _Susan,_ and Billy gets it.

“Neil — my dad — is an asshole.”

Steve absently stirs his spaghetti in the bowl. “I know. Max told me some stuff.”

“Told her they’re better off without him.” He cusses under his breath — _shit_ — when he has to cough. The koala is on the floor so he grips the sides of his bowl as tight as he can.

Steve doesn’t jump up to help him, but once the coughing fit is over and done with, he asks, “Are you alright?”

“Feel like such a tool,” he wheezes out, “but — water. I need water.”

*

Billy tolerates Susan’s drinking and drunk crying for a week, before his living situation changes. Again.

He has physical therapy twice a week, to rebuild some of his muscle strength, since apparently barely moving for nearly four months can cause your muscles to atrophy, and when Steve comes by to pick him up for the third appointment he asks him, “Can you do me favor?”

Steve says, “Sure,” and Billy waits to ask until he's lit a cigarette, and _god,_ he’s missed smoking.

“I’m going to hang myself if I have to spend another evening listening to Susan crying in the other room.” He flicks ashes out of the window of the Beemer, and bites his cheek to keep from laughing when Steve snorts. He’d just _laugh,_ but similar to coughing, laughing hurts. “If you know anyone with an extra room, or something, I’d appreciate it.”

“Joyce Byers,” is his answer. “She told me that if you needed somewhere to stay, then you’re welcome in her house. Joyce is good people. She’s better at cooking than I am, too.” Steve winks as he says the last part.

Billy does huff out a breath in lieu of a laugh, even if it makes him wince. “You’re not that bad at cooking, but it wouldn’t kill you to salt shit.”

Steve gives him a dirty look, before smiling and shaking his head. “How about after your physical therapy, we head over there to talk to her? How does that sound?”

“As long as I don’t have to listen to Susan crying, I’m game.”

*

Joyce Byers is a god among women, Billy decides.

She gives him a sympathetic look when he’s on her doorstep with Steve, and doesn’t shy away from giving him a hug. She’s gentle as she hugs him, not squeezing too tight, and Billy hugs her back as best as he can, because, admittedly, the contact is nice and he hasn’t had a good hug since he’s been home. She treats him like they’ve known each other for years, and as if today isn’t the first time they’ve spoken to each other.

He gets settled onto the couch in her living room, gripping Steve’s arms something fierce to avoid just dropping and potentially jostling his chest. Joyce nudges the coffee table closer to the couch, and Steve reaches for the ash tray on it, pulling it closer to Billy, and he thinks that maybe Steve talked to her, because she offers him a cigarette and a light, before asking him how he takes his coffee. (A few tablespoons of sugar and milk.)

While she’s making the coffee, and while Billy smokes, he looks over to Steve, who’s sitting next to him, and speaks. “I’ve been a huge _dick_ to you. Why are you — why are you doing all this?”

“Technically, _you_ asked me about the Joyce thing.”

“Harrington.” Billy gives him a hard look. “You know what I mean.”

Steve looks like he debates with himself on what to say, before he’s pulling a smoke from the pack in his coat pocket. Billy watches him, and stares at him when he starts to answer him. “It’s… It’s complicated, but it’s also not. I don’t know. You put your ass on the line for all of us, so part of it’s _that._ Part of it is because outside of driving the shitheads around and hanging out with you, I’m kind of fucking lonely. Part of it is because — I don’t know. My gut tells me it’s the right thing to do — to help where I can — and genuinely, man, I don’t mind it. I can — I can stop, if it’s weird.”

Billy shakes his head. “No, I don’t want that. I just wanted to know why, and now I do.”

Steve nods, and the silence that stretches between them isn’t awkward. Billy ends up staring at a spot on the carpet on the other side of the room, until Joyce returns to set a mug of coffee in front of him. She sits in an armchair next to the couch, tucking her legs underneath herself, and when she starts speaking, explaining that she has an extra room free since Jonathan moved in with Nancy, all the way in Chicago, he realizes she reminds him of his mom. They don’t look alike — where Joyce is pale, almost sickly pale, he remembers his mother being tanned, and she’s all dark browns where his mother would’ve been sun kissed blond, but they way she acts, the way she speaks to him, like he’s not just some punk kid, like he’s a person, reminds him of his mother.

She’s careful with her words, but she doesn’t beat around the bush, explaining that maybe it would be nice for Will to have someone around who _understands_ what he went through, and Billy doesn’t promise her anything, doesn’t promise that he’s going to be more than pleasant in passing, but maybe it makes him feel less alone. There’s a lot of emotions in his head that he hasn’t processed yet, but that feeling of loneliness is still there, still present.

“I’m not — I’m not going to be able to work, not for awhile,” he tells her. “Not a month and a half out from having a bunch of surgeons digging around in my chest.”

Joyce shakes her head and waves her hand dismissively. “That’s not a problem. You need to focus on healing, honey, not working.”

Billy exhales slowly and steadily, and nods. “Okay.” He grinds his teeth a little bit and makes a mental note to get a pack of gum at some point before asking, “When do you think I could…?”

“I’d need maybe half an hour to get the bed in there made up and that room tidied, but… Today, I’d say.”

And, really, Joyce Byers truly is a god among women. She’s just so fucking _kind._

*

“You’re a good person,” Billy says, to Steve, as he sits at the head of his bed, watching Steve pull clothes from hangers, to fold and to package neatly into one of the boxes they’d stopped and picked up from a moving company.

“Folding clothes doesn’t make me a good person,” he states. “I’ve been an asshole for the majority of my life, and I don’t think a few years of being somewhat nicer is going to fix that.”

Billy throws his lighter at Steve. Not hard, but enough to startle him. (And enough to make Billy wince from the movement.) “Take the fucking compliment, Harrington.”

Steve tosses the lighter back to him, and folds a pair of jeans. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve never — I’ve never had a lot of friends, and I don’t… Would I even consider you a friend?” _One, two deep breaths._ “After everything — dunno if I can. Point is — you’re being _kind_ and I don’t deserve it.”

“If not for you,” he starts, and Billy doesn’t miss how his motions, how he folds clothes, become a little more jagged, “We’d all be dead. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not doing this because I feel like I owe you, or whatever, but because _maybe_ — just _maybe_ — you’re not as bad as you or anyone else would like to believe.” He throws another folded up pair of jeans and a folded up t-shirt harshly into the box for Billy’s clothes, then looks him in the eyes. “Part of being _friends_ is that you’re supposed to be loyal and kind to each other. You can hardly talk without stopping to catch your breath, and the only reason I’m not _dead_ is because of _you,_ so… Shut up. You deserve kindness. Everyone deserves kindness, Billy. I’m gonna pack as much of your stuff into these boxes as I can, and you’re not gonna complain or feel guilty, okay?”

Billy opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find something to say, before making a bit of a face and saying, “Okay,” back to him, metaphorically waving a white flag, not wanting to turn it into an argument.

*

Steve drives Billy up to Chicago for his next appointment — the one where he’s supposed to get the sutures in his chest removed — the week before Thanksgiving. He turns up around four in the morning, and Joyce lets him in, since she’s always awake around that time, moving around the house, doing something. Billy isn’t asleep either, when Steve slips into his room to wake him up. When he hears the door opening, he reaches out, and feels around for the lamp on the bedside table, tugging on the string as soon as he can get his fingers around it.

Steve doesn’t look surprised to see that he isn’t asleep.

Billy sits up, and as he’s sitting on the side of the bed, he openly looks at Steve. He’s wearing a faux wool lined canvas jacket, layered over a flannel. His hair is tucked into his hat, which looks like it was knitted out of ugly mustard yellow yarn. His blue jeans over a pair of winter boots look less questionable, and once his brain processes Steve’s outfit, he asks, “How cold is it?”

“It’s pretty cold,” he tells him. “I brought an extra coat with me, if you need it. I don’t think denim or leather are going to cut it in this weather, especially not with your…” Steve gestures towards his chest, then points at Billy. “Y’know. Uh. Joyce wants to make you something to eat before we head out, so… You got time to shower, or whatever.”

Billy hums quietly under his breath, and does a gesture, meaning for Steve to help him up. His chest aches. As Steve’s hauling him up with all the gentleness in the world, Billy asks, “Is it supposed to snow?”

“Been snowing for about an hour. Why?” The look on Steve’s face is soft. He still has his hands on Billy’s biceps, and they’re standing a little too close.

Billy lets go of Steve’s arms, and pulls away from him to say, “Chest aches.” He saunters towards the door, with Steve trailing behind him.

He’s nice enough to hand Billy a towel from the linen closet, but doesn’t follow him into the bathroom. (Not that he would. That would be weird.)

He’s not allowed to be in the shower for too long — to avoid getting an infection in the sutures holding the incision in the center of his chest together (although it’s, presumably, healed) — but he stays in long enough to brush his teeth, to scrub at his skin as much as he can, to wash his hair, and to dread starting his day. He’s shaky, probably from not sleeping more than a few hours, and his brain feels like TV static.

He gets out of the shower as soon as he finishes rinsing conditioner out of his hair, and goes through the motions of his morning routine, or what has become his morning routine for the past few weeks — towel his hair off, blow dry it long enough to take it from wet to damp, shave if he needs to, slip on a t-shirt and whatever underwear he slept in, then slip back into his room to get dressed in private.

*

There’s breakfast set out for both Billy and Steve. It’s simple — a few sausage links, the cheap kind that comes in the box and goes in the freezer, three strips of bacon (crispy for Billy, damn near raw for Steve) and if Billy had to guess, he’d say two eggs worth of scrambled eggs for either of them.

Steve’s in the middle of shoveling food into his mouth, and Billy walks in on him doing it. He looks up, and around a cheek full of scrambled eggs, he says, “I thought you were gonna take longer.”

“I can’t shower for more than ten minutes,” he points out, before taking a seat across from Steve, in front of the plate he assumes is for him. “Took me longer to get dressed than it did to shower. You can go back to eating like your parents didn’t teach you better, Harrington.”

Steve makes a face at him, but the next bite of eggs he takes is smaller, and he quits talking with his mouth full. “Joyce went back to bed, something about having to work, later. She’s — she’s taking over carpooling for the day. Y’know, not that you have any reason to _care_ _—_ ”

Billy cuts him off. “I _do_ care. The carpooling involves Maxine. I care.”

And… Steve is not at all smooth about playing it off. “Cool! That’s — that’s cool, man. I didn’t mean to offend you, or whatever.”

“Just shut up and eat your breakfast. Idiot.”

*

By the time they get out of Hawkins, it’s nearing six, and Billy has a paper cup of hot coffee, with just the right amount of creamer in it, from a gas station between his hands. He’s wearing a winter coat that belongs to Steve, layered over an old sweatshirt that he doesn’t have the heart to get rid of, yet his teeth are still chattering, his knee is jiggling, and he still feels miserable in the cold Indiana winter weather. “I miss — I miss winter, in California,” he says, trying to fill the silence.

“It’s better than this shit, I assume,” Steve says as he activates his windshield wipers, since the snow, somehow, gets worse the further out of Hawkins they get.

“Miles. Could get away with just a sweatshirt, there.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Winter here… So many layers, man. So many.”

Billy looks over to Steve, and catches him smiling. He has a nice smile, Billy thinks. This one — the one on his face right now — is a closed mouth sort of smile, and it’s soft. It’s tender. It’s _sweet._ “The idea of a winter where I could wear a sweatshirt sounds… It sounds fucking amazing, if I’m honest. I own so many fucking coats that it’s not funny.”

“I’d never seen snow before moving here. I always thought that it’d be, like… I thought it’d be this cool thing, y’know?” He finds that if he speaks quietly and softly, he doesn’t have to pause as often to catch his breath, or to gather himself. “It’s just so fucking _wet,_ and _cold,_ and the roads out here — the roads out here are fuckin’ awful in the winter. Rain at the wrong time can shut the bottom half of California down, so I can’t imagine what anyone there would do if it snowed.”

“Crash and burn,” Steve deadpans. “Literally.”

Billy smiles and even if he winces, he laughs lightly. “Yeah, literally.”

They sit in silence for a few more moments, before Steve asks, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” Billy picks at the plastic lid on his coffee cup, making a little indent with his thumbnail. “Joyce has asked a few times if I want to spend it with her and her kids, and some of her other family, but… Thanksgiving with the guy who’s old bedroom you’re staying in sounds awkward to me.”

Steve snorts. “I’d imagine, yeah. I was wondering… My parents are gonna be out of town on Thanksgiving, because why the fuck wouldn’t they be, so… If you and Max wanted, the three of us could have Thanksgiving together…? Assuming Susan spends the whole day drinking, which…” He does a little hand gesture. “Assuming she does that, Max isn’t — she’s not going to have anything going on, and I figure it wouldn’t be as overwhelming for any of us to have a low key sort of celebration, or whatever.”

Thanksgiving with Steve and Max — and _only_ Steve and Max — sounds nicer than Thanksgiving with a ton of people he doesn’t know very well. (It’s not that he knows Steve super well, either, but he doesn’t feel on edge around him, and figures that must count for something.) “One condition.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“We gotta have shitty, store bought pumpkin pie, the kind that leaves the film on your mouth, with the shitty canned whipped cream.”

“Oh, of course, dude. I’ve had many a bougie pumpkin pie in my day, and let me tell you — nothing beats the shitty store bought kind.”

“I’m glad we can agree on something, man.”

Steve reaches over, with his fingers curled into a fist, and Billy gets the hit to knock his knuckles against Steve’s.

*

The appointment is weird.

There’s the doctor, of course, obviously affiliated with the military, and there’s two men in suits who stand outside of the door to the room the entire time, and it puts Billy on edge. The doctor asks him a series of routine questions — how his chest feels (not great, but better), how he feels in general (not great, but better), if he’s noticed anything _weird_ (outside of post traumatic stress and a general feeling of wrongness, no) — and once the staples that’d been in place to hold the incision in his chest closed are removed, he’s being told to follow the two suits.

Billy hadn’t wanted to ask at first for Steve to follow him to the exam room, to sit with him through the appointment, but as he’s being lead down a corridor and into a room that smells so fucking _sterile and clean_ that it makes his nose burn, but looks homey in that fake-hospital way, he sort of wishes he had asked. Maybe they would have made Steve sit in the waiting room anyways, but the possibility of not being _alone_ in a room with a fucking lawyer representing the actual goddamn _government_ really sounds nice right about now.

He doesn’t get threatened, necessarily, but she hands him a few packets of papers and a pen, and tells him that under no circumstances, whatsoever, is he allowed to file a lawsuit against the government, nor is he to speak about the government’s involvement with what happened to him. She doesn’t say anything threatening, really, but Billy can see it in the way she acts that anything but a _yes_ right now wouldn’t end well for him. His hand shakes as he’s scribbling his signature, printing his full name, and jotting down his initials in numerous places in each of the packets, and once he’s done with that — and once he has copies of everything he’s signed — he’s fast (or as fast as he can be) about getting the _fuck_ out of dodge, and getting back to Steve, who’s sitting in the waiting room reading a _Women_ _’s Health_ magazine.

Steve makes a weird face at the papers in Billy’s hand, but Billy nods towards the door, and he gets the hint to stand up and follow him out. With the doors of the BMW shut tight, and the hospital about a football field’s length in the rear view, Steve asks, “What was that about? You got the staples out, right?”

“They’re out,” he tells him. “Did they — did they make you sign any non-disclosure agreements?”

Steve looks confused for a moment, and _god,_ he’s always slow on the uptake, Billy thinks, but his face contorts into a look of realization pretty quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Uh. Last time we — we being me and the shitheads with the inclusion of Joyce and Hopper — had to deal with the monsters, they made me sign a bunch of shit. It was that night you, uh, threatened Lucas, and, y’know. I had to sign a few after this last time, too. Did they make you…?”

Billy nods, and holds the papers in his hand up a bit. “Didn’t get the chance to read them, but…”

Steve just nods, again, and reaches over to squeeze his forearm. “The government is pretty scary, yeah?”

“Yeah. They are, yeah.”

*

Billy remembers why he had a bit of a crush on Steve when they first met. There’s the obvious stuff, like how he’s pretty and _dainty_ in a sort of woodland elf way, or how he’s goofy and funny and cares too much about everyone around him, or that dumb fucking grin he gets on his face when he’s excited or laughing. Maybe, he thinks, he should be focusing on dealing with the aftermath of everything that’s happened rather than shooting googly eyes at King Steve while they eat shitty fast food in the 7-Eleven parking lot across the street from the McDonald’s, but there’s just something _about_ him.

He’s the kind of person who just does what he wants, within reason, and the idea of being able to do that is foreign to Billy. Growing up with a commandeering and abusive father left Billy with limited options and choices growing up, to the point that it’s very obviously extending into his adult life, and when Steve asks, “You wanna head back tomorrow?” he feels a range of emotions.

_I can_ _’t do that,_ is the first thing he wants to rush to say, before remembering — his dad is fucking _gone,_ they’re both adults, and there’s no one there to stop them from heading back tomorrow morning. It’s not like either of them have any engagements to attend to tomorrow, either. “Depends on where we stay for the night,” is what he settles on instead.

“There’s a Marriott a few blocks that way,” He says, pointing in a direction. “I don’t have a ton of cash on me, so if you’re cool with sharing a bed, we could get a room there. I kinda get the vibe that today’s been a lot. I dunno. If you — if you want, though, we can totally go back.”

“Might be nice,” Billy starts, picking a sesame seed off of his hamburger bun, “to get out of my own shit for the night. I — I toss and turn a lot, though. Max says I talk in my sleep, too.”

Steve shrugs, and sticks a french fry into his mouth. “It’s cool. I, uh… I have nightmares, so I don’t — I don’t sleep a ton, anyways.” There’s a certain vulnerability to his tone. “Going back to Hawkins seems a little… I don’t know. I don’t want to go back yet, because… Shit, it’s stupid.”

“I’m gonna have to listen to you either way, Harrington. You’re my ride.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Right. Well, I feel like it’s weird to unload on _you,_ because your shit is bigger than my shit.”

“Didn’t I just say I wanted to get out of my own shit? Tell me about your shit. Unload all over me, man.”

“That… That sounds super wrong. I hope you know that.” Steve giggles and, shit, his laugh sounds like heaven. Billy tries not to dwell on it. “I don’t want to go back, because I’m gonna be going back to a big, empty house, and I have a lot of _shit_ in that house. Like, baggage. Shit’s happened there, and I kind of super hate having to be alone all the time in that house. Mostly I can deal with it, but I’m just not in the mood today.”

“I’ve felt that way pretty much my whole life. I _still_ do.” Billy’s laugh hurts and makes him wince, and it’s dry and humorless on top of that. “Everywhere I’ve lived — there’s always something that’s happened. My — my dad, Ma dying, me beating the tar out of you, whatever. There’s always _something._ _”_

“Nancy had a friend. I was — wasn’t the nicest to Barb, but she was super sweet, and cute, too. Not _really_ my type, but she… came over to my house, with Nancy, the night me and Nance started getting serious about each other, or whatever.” Steve’s chin starts quivering and he starts going red in the face. “She disappeared that night, and I fucking — I hate myself for it every single _day_ because I didn’t take Nancy seriously when she said something was _wrong._ _”_

Billy hands Steve a few napkins from his bag, and he wipes his cheeks and blows his nose into one of them.

“She died in my pool. The same shit that got you — that got Will — that’s been making all our lives a living fucking _hell_ killed her, and I just… I don’t know. I can hardly look at a pool without wanting to throw up, because I just… I feel guilty, even though this is all so —”

“Impossible,” Billy finishes, for him. His voice is a little hoarse when he continues; “That was — that was way out of your control, man.”

“I know. I know. I still feel like shit about it, though. I don’t think even _Nancy_ is still as busted up over it, but every time I go home, I have a big reminder of that in my back yard, and I just… It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Steve.” Billy gives him a look that he hopes is a good mixture of tender yet serious and stern.

“I don’t think you’ve ever called me Steve before.” Steve sniffles, and licks over his teeth behind his closed mouth. It’s a tic he has, Billy thinks.

“Don’t get used to it.”

*

Billy has a nightmare. It’s the kind of nightmare where he can’t quite move fast enough, where no matter how hard he tries, his limbs move in slow motion, and no matter how hard or loud he tries to scream, nothing seems to come out. There’s some sort of presence in the dream, too — the same presence that inhabited his body for a period of time — and there’s visions of people he’s hurt, some of Steve on the floor in the Byers household, some of the anonymous Hawkins residents that _It_ made him hurt, even some where _It_ makes him hurt the kids. His mind conjures up such a fine mixture of things that did and _didn_ _’t_ happen that when he wakes up to Steve’s stupid concerned face and a hand on his cheek, he’s shocked, for a moment, that he’s _alive_ — that his face isn’t bruised and swollen and bleeding.

His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that it feels like it’s going to burst out at any moment, he’s crying _— god, he_ _’s crying —_ and he can’t breath.

Steve’s hand disappears from his cheek, and Billy watches, struggling for breath, as he sits up. Steve doesn’t look like he was sleeping, Billy notices, as the other boy is holding his hands towards him, obviously meaning to help him sit up. Billy doesn’t quite need the help, but there’s a greedy part of him that just wants to have some sort of contact with another person that accepts the help. Billy isn’t quite to the stage of full on ugly crying yet — with the heaving, the snot, and the whole works — and Steve seems adamant on not letting him get to that point. “You need to breathe, Billy.”

“No _shit,_ dumb ass,” is the first remark out of his mouth. It sounds more pathetic and sad than it does mean and biting.

“It’s gonna sound stupid, but I want you to breathe with me.”

It sounds a little stupid and Billy absolutely makes a face, despite the panic rising up in his chest.

“Don’t make that face. You’re gonna breathe with me — in for four, out for eight — okay? I’ve had to work myself through shit like this before, so you’re going to _breathe_ and you’re gonna be fine.”

Billy doesn’t give him a verbal answer, but when Steve inhales in a way that’s deliberate, he ends up following along as best as he can.

The breathing _helps._ It doesn’t fix everything, it doesn’t make the thoughts in his head go away, at least not immediately, but breathing with Steve and counting in his head the beats, at the very least, gives him something to do, makes him feel less like he’s floating away. Steve doesn’t laugh at him or make fun of him, either, and it’s not as if Billy was really _expecting_ that, expecting him to be an asshole about it, but he sits there with him, even reaching over to rest his hand on his upper back, asking him if he wants water or something when the tears dry up and he stops hyperventilating.

He’s been having nightmares for years at this point, and Billy knows how to handle himself, but something’s different — things feel _worse_ — and there’s some part of his resolve that crumbles and waves Steve away, muttering something about the water, wanting to accept the help. Steve’s _cool_ about it and continues to be _cool_ about it, and he doesn’t ask Billy a ton of questions outside of, “You wanna talk about it?” once they’re both on the bed and Billy has his water.

Billy shakes his head, and sniffs once.

“When I — when I started getting nightmares, I’d drive over to Nancy’s, and sleep with her.”

Billy glances up at him, eyebrows raising.

Steve blanks for a few moments, before realizing what he’d said. _“Not like that._ God, no, uh — just, like. Sleeping. Next to each other. Not fucking.

“I knew what you meant. Jus’ fuckin’ with you.” Billy gets him in the knee with his knuckles.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Anyways. I don’t know. Something about sleeping next to someone and not being alone when I woke up helped, I guess. Can’t exactly do it anymore, since she’s living with Jonathan now. I think Jonathan would kick my ass, again, if I crawled into bed with him and Nance, or he’d at least be, uh, pretty fuckin’ unhappy about it.”

“I’d go for a drive, or a walk, when I used to have them, before all this happened.” Billy picks at the edge of the plastic cup that came from the stack next to the sink in the bathroom of their hotel room. “There aren’t a lot of places in Hawkins to go, so I’d honestly just… Speed down the high way, and blast music until I quit feelin’ like I was gonna lose my mind. Back in — back in California, sometimes I’d go out to a bar and butter up the first person I saw for a watered down PBR.” Billy smiles a little bit at the memory, and shakes his head. “It was simpler.”

“We can go for a drive, if you want. I’d offer to take you to a bar, but… I’d rather just steal liquor from my dad.”

Billy snorts, picks at the cup some more, and takes another sip before answering Steve. “A drive sounds good, man.”

*

Billy gets a check in the mail, at the Byers household, for twenty five hundred dollars that Friday, and after reading through the packets he had to sign for the weird lawyer lady, he sees that there was something included in one of them about what was, essentially, hush money, in the form of monthly payments. He eyeballs the check, thinking, _‘They really must want me to shut the fuck up about this,’_ as he does so.

Money is money, though, and Billy’s the kind of person that would gladly take anything from the government, so he scribbles his signature onto the check, figuring that if the government wants to line his pockets, then they’re more than welcome to do so.

*

There ends up being a few extra people at Thanksgiving than Billy was expecting.

He’s packing an overnight bag in his room, slowly but surely, when he feels some sort of presence in the room with him. He squints, rubs at the back of his neck a little bit, where his hair is standing up, and glances up. He squints some more, feeling like there’s someone standing in front of him, something he can’t quite see, like how the road looks wet if it’s a hot day and you’re a mile away, and it takes him a few moments before it clicks. He rolls his eyes and at a speaking volume, says, “Jane, stop spying on me. If you need something, then come and ask.”

The presence disappears and less than a minute later, she’s walking into the room. Her hand grips the door knob, turning it back and forth as she stands there, not fully stepping into the room. Billy makes eye contact with her, and holds it while she speaks. “I want to eat dinner with Max.”

“Joyce wants you here,” he says, as if it makes a difference.

She shakes her head a little bit.

“Does Joyce _not_ want you here?”

“It’s not that.” She steps into the room fully, now, and nudges the door closed behind her. (She doesn’t latch it, though.) “There’s going to be a lot of people. Max told me that she’s eating with you and Steve. I don’t — I don’t like being around a lot of people.” She’s shaking her head again, looking oddly _grave_ for a fourteen year old.

Oh. _Oh._ Billy knows that Steve won’t give a shit, and he’s pretty sure Max won’t give a shit either, which makes him say, “I mean… I’d run that by Joyce, kid, but we’d be glad to have you eat with us.”

And that’s how Jane gets roped into Thanksgiving dinner at the Harrington residence.

Later in the morning, after Max has been picked up and the four of them are at Steve’s house, Billy puts together a batch of cinnamon rolls. It’s not the most traditional Thanksgiving hors d’oeuvre, but no one had any complaints and Steve’s house had the ingredients for them. Billy isn’t half bad at cooking, since it’s something he likes to do sometimes to take his mind off things when going for a drive or a walk isn’t an option.

He’s folding together the dough for it when the land line rings. Steve’s outside, smoking, and pokes his head in long enough to get Billy’s attention and to say, “Answer it.”

“And what the _fuck_ am I supposed to say?” He snaps. His word choice is harsh but his tone isn’t at all biting.

Steve rolls his eyes, and holds his cigarette as far outside as he can. “Just say, ‘Harrington Residence,’ and don’t be a dick. If it’s my parents, come get me. If not, tell them to fuck off. _Nicely._ _”_

He really doesn’t want to answer the phone, wants to tell Steve just to put his fucking cigarette out and to come answer it himself, but Steve closes the door again and Billy knows — _knows_ — he’s going to feel like a tool if he doesn’t do what Steve asked of him. He dusts his hands off and steps over to the phone, eyeballing Max and Jane, who are watching a cartoon in Steve’s living room, as he answers the phone. He tries sounding pleasant, he does, but he’s pretty sure he just sounds like he’s in a pissy mood when he says, “Harrington Residence.”

“ _Well, you’re obviously not Steve, either of his parents, or any of the brats he babysits…”_ There’s a pause. _“Is this the infamous_ Billy _that I_ _’ve heard so much about?”_

“Who the fuck is this?”

Max turns her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyebrows are raised. Jane gives him a curious look as well.

“ _Robin. Had a few classes with Steve a few years ago, and I used to work with him, too. Technically, I’m not allowed to talk about it over the phone, but we met that one time in July, too. Dunno if you remember it._ Anywho, _would you mind handing him the phone?_ _”_

“He’s out having a smoke.”

“ _And? Tell him to put his stupid Newport out and to come have a chat with dear, old, lonely Robin.”_

Billy doesn’t remember meeting Robin — not really — but he already likes her. He grins, and says, “I can do that,” before setting the phone down and stepping out to grab Steve. “Your dear, old, lonely friend Robin called. Says to put your stupid fuckin’ Newport out and to go have a chat with her.”

Steve blanks for a few moments, before rolling his eyes into the back of his head. He’s about halfway through the cigarette, and puts it out carefully in the way someone would when intending to come back to finish a cigarette. He slips past Billy, and back into the house.

Billy ends up back in the kitchen, intending to finish his cinnamon rolls.

Steve finishes up on the phone, and Billy hears him in the living room saying something to Maxine and Jane. Steve reappears less than a minute later to say, “Robin got into it with her parents. I’m gonna go pick her up.”

“Bad enough they’re not letting her eat with them?”

“Her mom’s a piece of shit, kind of like your dad,” Steve deadpans. “Tell her I told you that, and your ass is grass, got it?”

Billy winces, but does a quick sign of the cross with his right hand as a sort of nonverbal promise; “I swear unto you, King Steve, Lord of Bitches, that I won’t mention it.”

Steve sputters before cackling. “Lord of Bitches has a nice ring to it. I like it.”

*

Dinner is…

Nicer than one would have expected. Billy didn’t think either he or Steve had it in them to pull together a decent Thanksgiving dinner, but apparently, between the turkey breast, the pumpkin pie, the cinnamon rolls, and the casserole dish of scalloped potatoes that Joyce had sent Billy and Jane off with, they manage to put together a pretty good fucking dinner. Most of the conversation that takes place is between Max, Steve, and Robin, with Billy chiming in with a remark or a joke here and there, and Jane only speaking if she has something sly to say, a question to ask, or if someone addresses her directly.

All in all, Billy’s evening is uneventful. The most eventful thing that happens, he thinks, is when he slips outside to have a smoke, Robin follows him. Billy lounges on one of the pool loungers, because whether or not he wants to admit it, they’re pretty comfortable and a good place to smoke. Robin sits closer to him that he would’ve liked, but she doesn’t look intent on having a conversation with him.

He does ask, “Why are you out here with me?” when he’s about a third of the way through his first cigarette.

“You know, I always thought you were this huge asshole when you moved here. Like, deck you in the jaw if you even _look_ at me wrong kind of an asshole.”

“I was.”

“Past tense, yeah. You’re different, now, and your presence — it’s like… It’s kind of calming, in a way. You don’t expect everyone to be at a hundred percent, or whatever. Or you don’t seem like it.”

Billy grunts and hopes to _god_ she isn’t trying to hit on him right now. “Earlier, how you talked about Steve. Sassing him and all that. I like that you don’t put up with his shit.”

“I worked at Scoops with him for like, two and a half months. I was over it within a day.” Robin rolls her eyes, and leans back a little bit. “He’s a huge dweeb. Seemed all big and scary at school, but he’s kind of… He’s nice, when you get to know him.”

“Thought I hated him when I first met him,” Billy mutters.

Robin quirks an eyebrow. “You ‘thought?’ What changed?”

“Me.” Something about Robin makes him want to be a little less careful with his words. “How do you feel about queers?”

“Oh, y’know.” Robin shrugs. “Can’t exactly hate the team I’m playing for.”

Billy looks at her, making eye contact. They hold eye contact for a moment, before Billy nods, getting her point. He stops worrying about her hitting on him.“Right. Well — I had a, uh… I don’t know. I wouldn’t call it a crush, but I thought he was kinda cute, in this dorky, scrawny, white guy way. Also — if you tell him any of this, just know that I’m not afraid to punch a girl when the situation calls for it.” He gives her a hard look. They both know he wouldn’t actually, genuinely dare to put a hand on her. “Past year or so, I’ve been, uh, trying to — trying to accept that part of myself, that likes boys. I wasn’t in this mindset, or whatever, when I first met him, hence the fuckin… weird hate boner I had.”

“Hate boner…” Robin laughs with her chest. “That’s funny.” She’s quiet for a few moments. “Subject change, because I can only say nice things about Steve for so long.” She stretches and Billy hears her back pop. He’s maybe a little jealous of her back popping, and makes a mental note to ask someone to pop his back the next appropriate chance he gets. “I never had the chance to thank you, for saving everyone.” Her tone grows more genuine and gentle and Billy clenches his jaw.

He shrugs, and flicks his cigarette butt into the pool from where he’s sitting. (It’s hard and barely makes it, but he manages it.) He pulls another one out of the pack in his (Steve’s) coat pocket.

“Don’t just _shrug,_ dude. I’m serious. It was super brave, and admirable, for you to do that. Especially since I kind of had the impression you hated all of us.”

“I’ve been a dick.” He flicks ashes. “One good decision in the heat of the moment doesn’t just… I don’t know. Doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t undo all the wrong I’ve done.”

“I know it doesn’t, but that also doesn’t mean it’s not reflective of who you truly are as a person. I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but doing bad things — I don’t think doing bad things necessarily makes you a bad person, so long as long as your heart is in the right place.”

*

Steve is steady and safe. He’s the kind of guy who might complain about it, but he’s always going to have your back, no matter what, and Billy knows this. He’s only sought Steve out, on his own, on four separate occasions, but each time, Steve’s _been there_ for him, so when they’re in the reverse situation — when Steve crawls in through his bedroom window, teeth chattering, shivering from the mid December weather — and Steve asks him if he can sleep next to him, Billy just peels the quilt he’s under back, and pats the space next to him, muttering, “Joyce would’ve let you in.”

He hears him moving around the room, kicking his boots off and letting his coat fall to the floor, before crawling over Billy and settling into the empty space next to him on the bed. Steve lies on his back, and Billy yawns in his face, figuring that he can deal with his rank breath if he’s going to be crawling into his bedroom at some ungodly hour. “She’s not up, or I would’ve knocked on the living room window or somethin’,” is what he says.

Billy blinks a few times and really _looks_ at him. He’s grinding his teeth, and his chin keeps wobbling every few seconds. His hair is a mess, his eyes look a little swollen and raw in the way eyes do when someone’s been crying, and he doesn’t mean to, but Billy reaches up with a hand to brush the back of a few knuckles against Steve’s cheek. Steve wasn’t expecting the contact, and his head turns to look at Billy’s hand. Once he realizes what he’d been doing, Steve just says, _“Oh,”_ and turns his head back.

Billy withdraws his hand and asks, “Do you need to talk about it?”

“Had a really bad nightmare, and you remember what I said about not being able to crawl into bed with Nance anymore, yeah?”

Billy hums a little bit, an acknowledgment, and yawns again. “I remember. I’m the next best thing?”

Steve shrugs. He turns onto his stomach, head facing towards Billy. “It’s kind of stupid to compare the two. It’s like comparing an orange to a hamburger. Two totally different things.”

“Ex-girlfriend versus the white trash asshole who saved your life.”

“Maybe the white trash asshole is a better fit for me,” he mumbles. “Y’know, if I have to be crawling through windows. The two of us — we’re friends, and maybe it was kind of weird to be going to my ex girlfriend for a shoulder to cry on.”

“Just a bit.” Billy holds his hand in front of Steve’s face, holding his thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart. “A tiny bit.”

Steve grins. It’s a mix between his goofy grin and the closed mouth one that he defaults to. He grabs Billy’s hand, getting it out of his face, and Billy doesn’t move it when Steve doesn’t let go of his hand. “Sometimes I wonder if things would have happened differently if we were friends in high school.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Steve’s fingers wrap around Billy’s. Billy keeps talking as he rubs his thumb against the back of Steve’s fingers. “Not that I’m not in a weird place now, but I don’t think high school Billy was ready to be friends with you.”

“You could’ve fought monsters with us. You’d look totally cool, wailin’ on one of those fuckers with a crowbar, or something.” Steve giggles — because he’s apparently the kind of guy who giggles and Billy’s apparently the kind of guy who’s at least semi-charmed by it. “I feel really fucking guilty about what happened to you.”

Billy doesn’t move his hand from Steve’s, but he does frown at him. “Don’t start that shit. That wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even _my_ fault. I made the choice to defend all of you from some impossible fucking monster that we shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place. You’re _not_ responsible for that, dumbass.”

“I know, I know.” His chin starts wobbling again. “I know — I know we don’t — _didn_ _’t_ — like each other, but I never wanted — never wanted anything like _that_ to happen to you.”

“Steve.” The _please don_ _’t_ is left unsaid. “C’mon. I’m gonna be fine. Might not be tomorrow, or this year, but I’m gonna be fine. All this bullshit is temporary, I’m gonna recover, and soon enough, we can go back to having fist fights in Joyce’s kitchen. Or… I don’t know. Maybe not fist fights, if we’re giving this friend thing a shot.” Billy’s saying this mostly for Steve, but there’s a part of himself that hopes it to be true for himself.

“Coffee. We can have coffee in Joyce’s kitchen.”

“Is that what you want? I can totally go get a pot started, man.”

Steve shakes his hand and his fingers curl tighter around Billy’s. “You can make me coffee when we wake up later.”

*

Billy wakes up before Steve.

He wakes up feeling sticky and sweaty.

He blinks back against the sunlight filtering into the room, blasting his eyes, and has to wonder, for a moment, how the _hell_ Jonathan used to sleep in this fucking room, what with the sun hitting this side of the house in the morning. (Billy even has the bed shoved into the opposite corner of the room as the door, and the sunlight mostly misses him past a certain point in the morning, but it’s still bad enough for him to want to complain about it.) As he yawns and blinks himself into consciousness, he realizes why he’s uncomfortably sweaty.

He hears a snore in his ear and when he looks to his left, he sees that Steve is pressed into his side, warm and heavy and just _there,_ and _oh._

It’s early. It’s early enough that Billy doesn’t try filtering his thoughts. The first one that pops into his head is, _“That’s kind of cute.”_ He’s slept next to Steve once — that time in Chicago — and knows that the dude is a little restless, never sleeping too deep, and maybe there’s a part of him that feels a little flattered that he’s comfortable enough to _really_ sleep, especially _on_ him, like this.

Billy doesn’t do it, but there’s another part of himself, the part that’s delicate, the part that’s tender, the part that he keeps tucked away deep inside himself, hidden away from all the bullshit going on in his life, that wants to reach up with his hand and to brush the hair out of Steve’s face, to cup his cheek and to kiss the top of his head. That would be fucking weird, though, he thinks, so he doesn’t do it. Instead, he gets out of the bed as carefully as he can, and slips out of the room as quietly as possible, as to not rouse him.

He spends a few moments in the hallway, collecting himself, before slipping into the bathroom. Will’s in there — squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Billy plucks his own toothbrush out of the cup it sits in on the counter, and Will doesn’t say anything as he hands him the tube of toothpaste. Billy doesn’t really speak to Will, outside of pleasantries over dinner or in passing, but they have a mutual respect for each other and Billy knows that, if Will ever needed it, he’d absolutely put his ass on the line for the kid — _again_.

Will asks a question as he’s switching which side of his mouth that he’s brushing on. “Steve’s here, right? I heard talking, last night.”

Billy pulls his toothbrush out of his mouth to answer him. “Yeah. It’s just him. No burglars or anything.”

“We’ve seen scarier.”

Billy does a little nod as he goes back to brushing his teeth, as if to say, _yeah, we have._

*

Billy makes Steve coffee, as promised.

Steve leans into Billy as he’s taking a mug from him, lingering a little longer than appropriate, before saying a quiet and genuine, “Thank you,” to him.

*

Billy tries sneaking off to Steve’s for Christmas, knowing his parents aren’t going to be home, and knowing that Joyce is inviting a ton of people over, but as he’s about to walk out of the door, keys to his new (old and used) car — a ‘67 Buick LeSabre — in his hand, she coughs from the arch leading into the kitchen and gives him a pointed look. Billy looks at her for a moment, before deflating and mouthing, “Please?” at her.

She shakes her head.

Billy sighs, _loudly,_ and crams his keys into the front pocket on his jeans, and slips his coat off, hanging it on the hook next to the door. He’s about to slip back down the hallway and into the room he’s occupying, but Joyce stops him. “You were going to go to Steve’s, weren’t you?”

He shrugs, and does a little gesture, as if to say _yeah._ “Don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“He’s coming over, and he’s bringing your sister with him. No offense to Steve, really, but I think the three of you should spend Christmas with more people than just yourselves.” Joyce has a sympathetic look on her face.

She reminds Billy of his mom, still, and something about her makes him want to open up, to have a quick moment of vulnerability, if only just in case she lets him go anyways. “Look, Joyce, it’s just — I get overwhelmed real easy, since everything happened.”

She doesn’t budge, but her tone and expression remain sympathetic. “You don’t have to sit with everyone all day. I just know that I, personally, would enjoy it if you were here. And…” She leans forward, looking around, as if anyone would be there to eavesdrop. (He isn’t sure where Will or Jane are, but he knows they aren’t about to eavesdrop.) “… don’t say anything, but there’s some presents under the tree with your name on them.” She winks.

And that, right there, is the nail in the coffin. Billy knows — _knows_ — he’s going to feel like a fucking _tool_ if he doesn’t stick around for the day. As he’s caving, he just says a meek little, “Alright,” and accepts a hug from Joyce before retracing his steps back to his coat, deciding that he wants a cigarette more than he wants to go sit in his room.

*

He hasn’t had a proper Christmas since he was a child. Billy feels a little weird, sitting in Joyce’s living room with seven other people (Joyce, her two kids and her adoptive kid, both of the Wheeler siblings, Max, and Steve) but his heart starts feeling a little lighter as he watches everyone interact with each other. He doesn’t feel particularly overwhelmed, not until he starts getting handed presents.

A portion of the presents are just things that Billy needs — gloves and a card from Nancy, a _Rush_ t-shirt addressed to him from _‘The Party,’_ a pack of smokes and a lighter from Joyce, who, again, is a god among women, a pack of socks from Jonathan, with whom Billy exchanges a moment of eye contact and a brief nod of acknowledgment — but his presents from Steve, Will, Max, and Jane are sappy and sentimental and don’t help him with the whole _overwhelmed_ thing.

Steve’s presents, plural, are in a surprisingly neatly wrapped box. Inside is a vinyl copy of _Shout At The Devil_ – one of the only albums Billy doesn’t have in his vinyl collection yet – a bottle of cologne from the brand Steve likes, but a different scent, a _new_ coat that looks a lot more expensive than Billy would buy, even for himself, and a piece of card stock with, _“From Steve,”_ written on the front. Billy opens the card, and reads it. Little Wheeler tells him to read it out loud, but Billy gives him a dirty look before reading it to himself. (He’s pretty sure Max leans over to read over his shoulder, but he doesn’t try to stop her.)

“ _Not to get too sappy, but I’m proud of you and how much you’ve recovered. Also, thanks for being a surprisingly really good friend, and for making me coffee that one time. Super cool of you. -Steve_

_PS: We should hang out on New Years. Parents are gonna be gone and they leave the liquor cabinet unlocked._ _”_

Billy makes eye contact with Steve, and gives him a thumbs up, meaning it as a _yes_ for New Year’s.

Will’s present is a framed drawing of Billy as a superhero, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say it came straight out of a comic book. He’s a little in awe, staring down at the picture, running his fingers over the line work, before saying, out loud, “Kid, this is fucking sweet.”

Will shrugs him off, but seems flattered nonetheless.

Max’s present is heavy as fucking _hell,_ and Billy finds out why when he opens it. She leans over to quietly say, “Went through Neil’s shit, and thought you might like to have some stuff.”

There’s a bunch of framed pictures — of his mother, of himself and his mother, and a photo album that, upon thumbing through it briefly, seems to be missing any pictures of Neil. There’s a small jewelry box, too, with _her jewelry_ , and Billy has to take a few minutes to hug Max and to pretend that there aren’t six other people watching them. She hugs him back, as tight as she can, it seems, and says, “You’re welcome.”

Jane’s present, although not quite what Billy was expecting, still leaves him feeling touched. Somehow, she had gotten a hold of the license plates from the Camaro, plus the rosary from the glove box. Billy isn’t particularly religious, but he remembers that his mother used to always keep a rosary in the glove box of her car, and that once he started driving, he did the same thing. He feels as if it’s silly, but when he sees the rosary, he has to wipe at his cheeks. Jane crawls across the floor so that she can hug him, and Billy manages to refrain from flipping Little Wheeler off when he gets a pissy look on his face.

*

When Billy slips outside to have a smoke, to decompress from the chaos inside, he isn’t surprised that someone follows him out. He’s expecting Steve, more than anyone else, but he’s a little surprised when a, “Hello,” is said to him from the voice of Jane.

She’s wearing a coat that isn’t hers, and Billy assumes she probably grabbed the warmest coat hung on the hooks next to the door. She’s the kind of person that can get away with that, he supposes. “You need somethin’?”

“It’s loud, inside,” is what she says. “Steve and Mike are… obnoxious.” She says the word ‘obnoxious’ like it’s foreign.

“You’re right, yeah.” He chuckles a little bit, coughs, and winces. His chest doesn’t hurt quite as bad as it used to, when he first came back from the hospital, but the weather is shit and he figures he’s always going to ache when the weather gets bad. There’s a part of him that kind of wants to go find the koala. “Since I’ve been back, or however you wanna say it, I, uh, get overwhelmed real easy. I’m usually fine if I’m just with, like, Steve, or something, but…”

“It’s a lot.”

“Yeah. This is — this is also the first real Christmas I’ve had since I was a little kid, if I’m honest. Lot of emotions. I don’t — I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, Jesus. Sorry.”

Jane reaches over and squeezes Billy’s bicep with her gloved hand. She doesn’t say anything — doesn’t offer him any words of reassurance — but somehow, the look on her face gets the point across. “This is my first real Christmas too. Ever.”

“Ever?” Disbelief is written across his face.

“Ever.”

Billy doesn’t push the issue. Instead, he asks, “Was it a good one, at least?”

She nods. “I think so. It’s… weird. Doing ‘normal’ things feels weird.”

Billy gets it. He gets it. “Yeah,” he says. Maybe he doesn’t grasp the full scope of her situation, because all he knows about her are things that other people have mentioned in passing, but he gets it. “Normal things are pretty weird.”

*

Billy only realizes it once he’s sitting on the couch in Steve’s living room, passing a joint back and forth with him while sipping scotch and watching the New Year’s Eve coverage on the news, that Steve’s the only person he can stand to be around without getting tired of him. He’s high enough to admit this, out loud. “You know, man… You’re, like, the only person I can — I can stand to be around. With everyone else, I just… I get fuckin’ tired, and start — start feelin’ like I’m about to float away. Like an out of body experience. ‘S stupid.”

Steve hums a little bit, and doesn’t respond until after he’s shown off by blowing smoke rings for the millionth time. “The feeling is mutual. Don’t feel like there’s a ton of pressure with you. It’s nice.” He passes the joint back.

They’re nearing the filter on it — one cut off from a valiant sacrifice from Steve’s pack of cigarettes — so Billy’s next drag off of it is a small one. “Never got to say thank you for the card. I know I’m not — not all mushy, or whatever, because I’m not a fuckin’ girl — but it meant a lot.”

“Meant what I said, Billy.” Steve takes the joint back, and after a permissive nod from Billy, he smokes the rest of it.

“Not a lot of people have said they’re proud of me.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve leans forward and Billy admires his shoulders as he’s putting the joint out in the ash tray on the coffee table. “I meant it. I really meant it, man.” When Steve leans back, he’s somehow closer to Billy than he was before — close enough that Billy can feel the heat from his body. “How’s your chest been doing?”

Steve knows how it’s been doing — he still drives Billy to his doctor’s appointments, and they _talk_ — but Billy answers him anyways. “Better. Haven’t had to hold the Koala since Thanksgiving, so that’s — that’s somethin’.”

“Good.”

And, truthfully, between the two of them, Billy always thought it’d be himself that instigated anything even remotely romantic with Steve, if they were to ever get to that point, or if he were ever bold enough, but… It’s Steve that instigates it. He doesn’t do anything major, or anything _rash,_ but he does reach over, running his hand down Billy’s arm, until he’s able to slot their fingers together.

Billy’s heart starts thudding in his chest, and it scares the shit out of him, because he’s stoned. He squeezes Steve’s hand tight, and when Steve asks, “Is this okay?” Billy nods and leans on him, head on his shoulder.

“It’s good.”

Steve is safe. Steve makes him feel _safe_. Steve holds his hand and the way he says, “My heart is going, like, a thousand miles an hour, dude,” is cute and fucking _charming_ and Billy can’t help it when he turns his face, pressing his mouth against Steve’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss on his shoulder — Billy isn’t brave enough for that, not quite yet, but he’s brave enough for a small gesture of affection. “I’ve never been this nervous to hold someone’s hand before.”

“You ever been with another guy?”

Billy feels him shake his head. “I kissed Tommy on a dare, once, and I’ve kissed a few dudes at one of the gay bars in Chicago, but… Nothin’ serious. I’m not — I’m not gay. I like both. Have you ever…?”

“Nothing serious. I’m, uh, the furthest thing from a virgin, but I haven’t ever done the whole relationship thing.” His cheeks feel warm and tingly and something in him softens when Steve slouches a little bit, leaning into him. “Someone back in Cali caught me blowing this guy I was seeing, and snitched to Neil. He cracked my eye socket over it. It’s why we moved.”

“Neil sucks.” Some of Steve’s hair falls over Billy’s forehead, and it tickles a little bit. He doesn’t move to brush Steve’s hair out of his face. “I think my parents suspect, but not for the right reasons. Or whatever. I’m gone a lot and I’m — I’m pretty secretive with them, for obvious reasons. My mom — I think she’s… Okay with it? She’s started doing this thing, where she won’t specifically state the _gender_ of that metaphorical person I’m supposed to end up with, and it’s sort of funny. I dunno.”

Billy snorts. “Your mom seems cool. I mean, I’ve met her, like, once, but y’know.”

Steve nods, and takes a deep breath, as if he hadn’t been breathing enough beforehand. “I wanna kiss you, when the ball drops.”

Billy’s heart drops into his ass, but he swallows around the sudden pang of fear that hits him. He tilts his head a little bit. “Is that so, Harrington?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna let you, but I want you to know that it doesn’t — it doesn’t mean I’m your boyfriend, now.”

“No, I know. I know, man. It’s just a kiss, to ring in the new year and all. I don’t — I’m not expecting that from you.”

“It’s not —” _god, why am I doing this, “_ — it’s not off the table, but I’m not… I’m not ready, not so soon. Got too much shit on my plate already without worrying about being someone’s boyfriend.”

“I know you do, Billy. I know. It’s seriously just a kiss. I got shit on my plate too. And, I mean… We could probably stand to get to know each other a little better anyways. I don’t even know what your favorite color is, man.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumbass. It’s blue.”

“Mine’s green.”

Billy doesn’t get the time to respond to that, though, because the countdown starts, and Steve launches himself off the couch, making grabby hands at Billy, helping him stand up once he’s able to get a hold of Billy’s hands. They stand chest to chest, and as the number gets lower and lower, Steve’s face inches closer to his own. Billy’s heart thuds so hard he can _hear_ it, and when Steve cups his cheeks in both of his hands, he starts tearing up a little bit. Steve holds his face with a sort of delicacy that Billy isn’t used to. He touches him like he’s a fragile, ancient treasure, at least right now, and maybe the affection is a little overwhelming but just what he needs.

This moment feels so private and _intimate_ and Billy sort of feels like he might drown.

Steve kisses his nose when the countdown is on three. It’s such a tender kiss. By two, his lips are _barely_ brushing against Billy’s, and by one, Steve kisses him, and they hold the kiss for a few seconds. Steve pulls away, only a few inches, but far enough for Billy to lick out with his tongue, to wet his own lips. His hands end up settling onto Steve’s waist as he leans in again, angling for another kiss. Steve gives it to him.

Steve kisses him like he means it. It’s not rough or biting or desperate, but surprisingly grounding, full of affection, and fucking magical. Billy doesn’t feel pressured to let it escalate, and he _likes_ it. More than anything, he likes the fact that it’s not escalating, likes the fact that he doesn’t feel like he needs to put on a show. Steve holds him, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other wrapped around his torso after they’re done kissing, swaying back and forth slightly, and Billy just feels _safe._ He feels fucking untouchable.

*

Billy wonders why significant moments in his interpersonal relationships have to happen whenever he slips outside to have a smoke.

It’s the middle of January, and Billy’s spent the better part of his morning doing laundry and cleaning up around the house. He snags a cigarette from Joyce’s pack, which is left on the coffee table next to the ashtray, and when he steps outside, more than ready to have his smoke and a moment to himself, he happens to find Will kicking the shit out of a snowman.

Billy whistles to get his attention, and when Will looks at him, seeming embarrassed, Billy does a little gesture, as if to ask, _“What the hell?”_

He didn’t have any plans to step out into the snow, but he ends up doing it anyways, walking until he’s standing next to Will, looking down at the remnants of the snowman. “Did something happen, Little Byers?” He tucks the cigarette behind his ear.

Will kicks the snow again. “It’s stupid.”

“I’ve been stupid my whole life. Try me.” Billy looks at Will without turning his head. He doesn’t necessarily want to have a heart to heart with him, but he’s visibly upset, and Billy’s trying to make an active effort in being a better person.

Will is clenching and releasing his fists, breathing heavily and deliberately. He reaches up, and yanks his hat off, shaking it out, and spinning it on his hand as he asks, “Have you ever _really_ liked someone, but couldn’t — couldn’t _have_ them? Liked them so much that it _ached?_ ”

“Who hasn’t?” comes his rhetorical answer. “I’m kind of in that situation right now. A girl givin’ you trouble?”

Will glares down at the snow, not looking at Billy. “No.”

“Okay.” Billy grabs his cigarette, and lights it. “Is it a boy?”

“You gonna call me a _faggot_ and turn into an asshole again?” Will looks up at him, and he looks _fierce._ He’s a tough kid, Billy thinks.

“No. I’m familiar with boy troubles.” Billy rolls his eyes a little bit. “You’re not the only gay kid in Hawkins.”

“It feels like it, sometimes.” He doesn’t quite kick the snow this time, but he nudges some of the remnants of the snowman with his boot, and Billy flicks ashes off of his cigarette.

“I know.” Billy reaches over, and squeezes his shoulder. “There’s always more of us than you think.”

“Yeah.” Will sighs. “Can I — can I talk about my boy troubles?”

“It’s a little cold out here to talk about boy troubles.” It is, really. There’s eight inches of snow on the ground, Billy’s trying to get through his cigarette as fast as he can, and he can tell that whatever conversation Will needs to have about his _boy troubles_ isn’t going to be a short one. “You wanna talk about it over lunch?”

“You’re paying,” is all Will states before he trudges back towards the house.

Billy rolls his eyes again.

*

“You’re a cheap date,” is Billy’s smart remark as he’s handing a bag from Burger King across the front seat in his car to Will.

Will makes a bit of a face, but doesn’t say anything until Billy’s parked his car in the parking lot of the Burger King. He almost delicately plucks a french fry out of his bag, eating it, before asking, “You know Mike, right?”

“Tall? Skinny? Angsty? Bit of a dick? Glued to poor little Janey?” Will nods. “I’m familiar.”

“I like him,” Will states. “Y’know — _really_ like him. He has his moments, but he’s a really sweet, and I’ve — I’ve liked him for a long time, before I even… I liked him before I even _knew_ what liking boys even _meant._ We — y’know, we being me, Dustin, Lucas, him, Max, El, and sometimes Steve — we keep making plans for D&D, because after what happened in July, we all kind of swore to start doing more campaigns, but Mike’s been blowing everyone off and dragging El with him, and I’m just _frustrated._ Having this stupid _crush_ is just complicating things, because I know — _know_ — that if I didn’t have a crush on him, it wouldn’t be so _f-fucking_ complicated. I don’t give a shit when _Steve_ blows us off to hang out with you or Robin or whoever, but when it’s Mike — it just _bugs_ me.”

Billy nods thoughtfully. He takes a swig from his milkshake, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing and responding to Will. “Can I be honest with you, kid?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Okay. Look. First crushes almost never work out. Back in California, there was this — this guy that I liked. He was… kind of like Mike, y’know? Real pretty, kind, tall, skinny, funny, big hair and a big personality. I was _convinced_ that it was meant to be, but then he got a girlfriend and… honestly? I had to get over it. It didn’t feel great, because… C’mon. You really like this dude, then he goes and gets a girlfriend, and it feels like a betrayal, right?”

Will nods.

“Right. Exactly. Point is — I got over him, grew up a little more, and trust me, kid — there are always more bitches in the sea. Mike isn’t going to be the only pretty boy that comes along. There’s going to be more pretty boys that come along and hurt your feelings but you’re going to find one, eventually, that likes you back, and that sticks around. Also, man… Mike’s a dick.”

Will bites his cheek, to try and keep from laughing, but ends up laughing anyways. “You’re right. He’s a fucking dick. Sometimes I don’t even know _why_ I like him.”

“He’s your friend,” Billy points out. “We’ve all had crushes on our friends before.”

“I guess you’re right,” he mutters.

*

It’s somewhere in early February, and Billy’s in the middle of having a particularly bad nightmare when Steve wakes him up by opening the window from the outside. He’s tired, full of fear, and panicking, because the window flying open startles him, and the wide eyed manic look Steve has on his face isn’t doing much to keep him calm. He sucks a few breaths into his lungs and gets out a sleepy, _“Wha’?”_

Billy’s confused, blearily half awake. Breathing is becoming an increasingly more difficult task the more he wakes up, though, and the way Steve says, “We need to get the fuck out of Hawkins,” doesn’t do anything to calm his nerves either.

His chest aches and his heart beats especially hard as he asks, “They’re not _back,_ are they?” He sounds breathless.

“Huh?” Steve gives him a confused look, for a few seconds, before realization dawns on him. “Oh, dude, no, _no no no._ _”_ He loses his boots and crawls up the bed, stopping when he’s able to drop down onto his side next to Billy, cupping his face in his palms. “They’re not back.”

“Then what’s — what’s goin’ on?” Steve uses his thumb to wipe a tear from under Billy’s eye. “Why do we needa leave?”

“I just need to get out of my own shit for a few days. Nothin’ bad.” Steve kisses his forehead. He smells like cigarettes, armpit, and artificial pine.

Billy scrunches his face up, and shoves Steve onto his back as gently as he knows how. “Jesus, fuck. Why do you have to wake me up to do it?” He snaps. “Balls deep in a nightmare — you can’t just _scare_ me like that.”

Steve looks guilty and like he hasn’t slept in awhile. He holds his arm out, and after a few seconds of awkward tugging and moving around in the bed, Billy has the quilt he’s under thrown over Steve, before scooting over in the bed to lie with his head on his chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he admits. “I probably should’ve come in through the front.”

Billy grunts, and glares into the darkness. “You need to take a shower. You smell like shit.” He doesn’t move.

“I was gonna. Later. Wanted to sleep for a few hours, take a shower, eat Joyce’s groceries, then I was thinkin’ we’d drive up to Columbus or something.”

Billy sighs. His hand is shaking when he lifts it, sliding it up, until his fingers are in Steve’s hair. His hair is kind of greasy and not actually that fun to touch, but he leans into Billy’s touch and it makes his heart beat some sort of way — outside of the panic that’s still lingering. “Why Columbus?”

“It’s the same distance from here as Chicago is, and I don’t want to drive up to Chicago,” he says, as if it’s that simple. “I don’t know. I seriously didn’t mean to scare you like that, Billy.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” Billy states. “No more scaring the shit out of me, or we’re gonna have a repeat of that fist fight.”

Steve snorts. His hand settles into the small of Billy’s back and Billy might be mistaken, but he’s pretty sure Steve kisses the top of his head before saying, “Alright.”

*

They take Billy’s car, and they stop in Indianapolis so they can have a smoke at a gas station, glaring at the snow that’s drifting down from the sky as they do it. Billy has a coat that belongs to Steve pulled tight over a sweatshirt and a flannel, but he’s still cold and his chest still aches. Billy has one hand in the pocket of the coat, the other holding his cigarette, and he throws Steve a confused look when he feels an arm looping around his own. He flicks ashes onto the ground and says, “Someone might see.”

“I don’t give a shit.” Steve’s shivering. “I’m cold and we’re leaving as soon as we finish smoking anyways.”

Billy rolls his eyes. He tugs his right arm from Steve’s grasp, to sling it around his shoulders, and to pull him closer, trying not to smile something that borders on smug when Steve’s left arm settles around his waist. “We should go on a date when we get there,” he finds himself stating, before he can even think to _not_ say it. “Find some shitty diner, or something. Pray we don’t see anyone we know. Footsie. Hold hands under the table. All that mushy shit.”

“I’m not playing footsie with you in Ohio,” is the first thing Steve says. “I’ll go on a date, I’ll do all the mushy shit, but no footsie. Fuckin’ hate when I’m on a date with someone and I feel a foot going up my leg. Creeps me out.”

“Even if it’s me? I’m pretty good with my feet, Harrington.” Billy leans over as he says the last part, speaking lowly into Steve’s ear, teasing him.

Steve’s face screws up, like he’s trying not to laugh. “If I feel your feet anywhere near me within the next seventy two hours, I’m gonna lose my shit.”

Billy can’t help it. He taps Steve’s boot with his own, and starts laughing in earnest at the way Steve pulls away from him. His arm is still around Steve’s shoulders, and he pulls him back, hazarding a kiss to his cheek. “C’mon. I’m teasing.”

“I’m serious, _William._ No fuckin’ footsie. I can’t fuckin’ describe how much I hate footsie.”

“Oh, shit, _Steven_. You’re busting out my full name. I guess it must be real serious then, huh?”

“In an ideal world, I’d kiss your stupid face and we’d hug and shit, but we’re getting mad dogged by that lady over there, and I don’t want to get hate crimed, so you’re gonna just have to pretend that’s what happened.”

Steve knocks into him with his hip, and Billy squeezes his arm around his shoulders as he laughs.

*

Billy’s been on a few dates in his lifetime, damn near all of them with girls he had no capacity to love or care about beyond a friendship. Being on a date with Steve is _— different._ He can’t exactly reach across the table to hold his hand, not without anyone, _someone_ seeing, but there’s something in him that feels light and so goddamn free. They’re out of Hawkins for the time being, in a big city where people mind their own fucking business, where people don’t know them, where they can pretend they’re just a normal couple — in an objective, unestablished way, because the thought of making any major commitments right now makes Billy want to crawl out of his skin — out for dinner.

*

Intimacy is something that Billy’s always had trouble with.

It’s easier, with Steve, because Steve is just _Steve_ and Steve is safe and easy to be with. The kind of intimacy they share — it’s not necessarily romantic. There’s a lot of hugging and cuddling and sneaking out to sleep in each other’s beds that goes on between them behind closed doors, and yeah, maybe it makes his heart flutter and maybe it makes him feel all warm and gooey inside, but it’s not always romantic.

Now — present time — in their hotel room where Steve’s straddling his hips on the bed, kissing him like he’s a long lost lover, like they haven’t seen each other in years, kissing him like he’s the love of his fucking life, and toying with the hem of Billy’s t-shirt — the intimacy is very fucking obviously _romantic_ and when Steve’s hands slide under his shirt, resting, at first, a little below his waist, he starts getting overwhelmed. He feels a hot wash of shame come over him when his hands go from cradling Steve’s face to grabbing his wrists.

Billy looks in the mirror more than what’s considered healthy. He tries not to stand in front of mirrors, just _staring_ at his torso, staring at the scar tissue, hating how it’s ugly and puffy and pink, hating the way the incision in the center of his chest is sunken in and discolored, missing being able to walk around without a shirt on without getting weird looks, or without feeling like he’s about to start freaking out, hating how fucking _insecure_ he is — because yeah, he knows he’s insecure and he hates being insecure almost more than he hates looking at his chest in the mirror — and the last thing in the world that he wants is for Steve, soft, safe, lovely fucking _Steve_ to be staring at his chest like he’s some sort of grotesque monster.

Steve kisses him. He’s been kissing him for the better part of twenty minutes but this one is almost like an apology, and Billy has to wonder if he can read minds when he says, “I’m not gonna judge you,” against his mouth. “Seen you a thousand times in the locker rooms, and at the pool.”

“Not like this,” Billy tells him. He nudges Steve back and looks at a spot on the ceiling to the left of his head instead of into his eyes. “Steve—” He sighs and makes a face. “Look. If it was just — just the scar from the surgeries, I wouldn’t give two shits about letting you look, but it’s — it’s all over. And it’s ugly.” His voice feels thick and a hair trigger feeling of anger sparks up in the back of his mind — not at Steve, never at Steve, not anymore, but it’s there and there’s pressure building behind his eyes. “Don’t wanna scare you off because I’m fucking… _Disfigured._ _”_

Steve sighs. Billy glances at his face, expecting him to look angry, to be rolling his eyes, or something, but he looks — _sad._ “Billy. I’m not — I’m not expecting you to remember, but in that mall — after _that_ happened — I literally held your mangled body in my _arms,_ and that was the shit of nightmares. I’m not so stupid as to assume you’re gonna look like… I don’t know. Like you did before.”

And. _Oh._ Billy didn’t know that.

“It’s just… I’m not gonna force you to take your shirt off, because that’d be a dick move on my part, but… Can I get — do you care if I’m real with you for a second?”

Billy’s hands end up settling on Steve’s jean clad thighs, and he does the best shrug that he can, given he’s lying on his back, meaning for Steve to continue.

“I don’t care what you look like. You being here now is enough for me.” Steve’s eyes are watering, and his chin wobbles in the way that it does when he’s about to cry. Billy’s sort of surprised that he doesn’t start crying. He looks like he wants to say something _dumb_ — something that Billy could absolutely hazard a guess at — but he doesn’t. “Your scars aren’t going to scare me off, Billy. You’re like — you’re my best friend, man.”

The song that they’re listening to, playing from one of Steve’s dumb mix tapes that’s crammed into the stereo in the room, has a line about _not quite friends, not quite lovers,_ and Billy almost starts laughing. He would have started laughing if he didn’t feel like he were about to explode from his emotions.

Steve points out the lyric. “And — and the _Eagles_ — that line _._ I know we’re not — we’re not quite lovers, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, but you’re really fucking _important_ to me, and I don’t want you to ever _think_ for even a second that there’s anything about you physically that would scare me off.” He still looks like he wants to say something dumb.

Billy also kind of wants to say something dumb.

He spends a few minutes lying there, looking up into Steve’s eyes and pretending like he doesn’t have a few fat tears that drip down the sides of his face. “I’m not taking my shirt off,” is the first thing he says. “But thank you. I mean it — thank you.”

Steve bends down again, kissing both of Billy’s cheeks, his nose, even his fucking chin, before kissing him on the mouth. It’s not quite heated like before, and Steve ends up lying on his stomach, half on top of Billy as they keep kissing. Billy’s hands end up cradling Steve’s face again, feeling something warm blooming behind his ribs, and maybe they’re a little pathetic — lying in a hotel room in _Ohio,_ getting misty eyed as they make out — but Steve feels like home and everything holy and it’s _fine._

*

Billy doesn’t ask Steve to be his boyfriend on Valentine’s, but they exchange mix tapes and a few roses and he feels kind of like he’s experiencing some of the youth he’s missed out on. He even goes out and buys himself a copy of _One of These Nights,_ just to put the song that they’d been listening to when they had their _moment_ in Ohio onto the mix tape.

He laughs, later that night, when he’s listening to the mix tape Steve left with him, because the first song is from the same album as the first song on Billy’s — except instead of it being _After The Thrill Is Gone,_ it’s _I Wish You Peace,_ and yeah, maybe it’s kind of fucking touching and maybe Billy listens to it five times in a row as he thinks to himself that Steve’s the kind of boyfriend he’s dreamed about since he realized he even _liked_ boys.

*

Billy isn’t sure how Will manages to rope him into driving to Indianapolis to go see the new Molly Ringwald movie. It’s a mixture of factors. He’s man enough to admit that he sort of likes the movies that Molly Ringwald has been in, and when Will approaches him, saying he doesn’t want to _‘hang out with stupid fucking Mike’_ while looking like he’s on the verge of tears, he finds himself saying, “There’s a cool theater in Indianapolis, and that Molly Ringwald movie just came out. We could make a day out of it, if you want.”

Will accepts the offer graciously, looking relieved, and when they’re on the road, Billy smoking a cigarette and Will snacking from a bag of Fritos, he’s expecting Will to want to talk to him about _boy troubles._ He’s prepared to give him some advice and to gently (or as gently as he’s capable of) suggest he either talks to Mike or moves on, but when Will asks, “Are you and Steve together?” he chokes on cigarette smoke.

“ _Jesus Christ.”_ Billy wheezes, and his face screws up as he tries not to cough, because he’s in the middle of driving and having a coughing fit in the middle of a semi-busy freeway isn’t on the list of things he has planned for the day. He recovers after a minute, and barks out a, _“No,”_ at him.

“Right, because two friends just… give each other roses on Valentine’s day?” He’s laughing. “I saw both of you with roses, and I know he comes over almost every night to sleep in your bed.”

Billy gives him a dirty look. “It’s complicated.”

“Why? It’s not like either of you have anything else going on. C’mon. I’ve talked to you about boy problems before. I wanna hear about Steve.”

“We’re not _not_ together.” Billy flicks ashes off the tip of the cigarette, and takes a deep drag. He exhales through his nose. “Aren’t you, like, twelve? I don’t think I should be talking to you about _my_ boy problems.”

“I turn fifteen this month. I think I can handle it.” He pops a Frito into his mouth.

“Right. Of course.” Billy sighs, and takes a few minutes to come up with anything. “I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate, and… If I’m honest, I’m afraid that if we definitively agreed on a label, or what the fuck ever, then I’d somehow ruin it. I don’t feel like I’m in a good place to be going and getting a boyfriend right now.”

Will does a little nod, as if to say, _‘Fair enough,’_ and Billy sort of hopes he leaves it at that. He doesn’t. “What are you going to do in the future if you two start dating and more shit happens? Break up with him? Isn’t the point of being boyfriends to support each other?”

_The little shit has a point._ “Cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess.” He doesn’t plan to say anything else, but that doesn’t mean the words don’t come tumbling out anyways. “I haven’t ever had a serious boyfriend before, and Steve — he’s special. He’s real special. If we start dating, it’s not gonna be some two or three month thing, y’know?”

“All the more reason you should be with him _now_ , I think,” Will points out.

“Are you going to spend this drive trying to convince me to ask Steve out?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Will uses a particularly long Frito to do a gesture, “then yeah.”

(Will pesters him for the next twenty minutes of the drive, until Billy gives in, and promises that he’ll _try,_ but he specifically doesn’t specify _when.)_

*

_Pretty in Pink_ ends up kind of sucking, and after one too many laughing fits from either of them, due to both Billy and Will cracking jokes about the movie, the usher in the theater gives them a look and points at the door.

*

Billy feels like he transforms with the trees and the flowers in the spring. It’s slow, and it’s a process, but things feel… Better. Things aren’t great — he doesn’t know if things will be great, not for awhile — but he’s a little lighter on his feet and some of the turmoil going on within him seems to settle down as the days start growing longer. His mood is on the upswing and for the first time in months he finally feels like he’s able to fucking _breathe._

He feels like he’s able to breathe and on a Sunday morning in April, one where he wakes up in Steve’s bedroom, wrapped up in his arms — a morning after a night where they both sleep soundly, without nightmares or waking up in a cold sweat, without having to get up to go for a walk in the middle of the night to gather their thoughts — he says, “I think I’m gonna move out of Joyce’s extra room.”

Steve hums quietly, twirling a lock of Billy’s hair between his fingers. Steve’s other hand is settled into the small of Billy’s back, just under his shirt, and he asks, “Are you gonna go back to California?”

And — Billy thinks about it. He considers the idea. He’s been considering it for a few weeks, now. “I don’t think so.”

Steve’s fingers go still in his hair. “Isn’t California home for you? You’ve talked about it, before.”

“Not anymore.” Billy runs his fingers through Steve’s chest hair. It’s kind of patchy and kind of sparse but Billy thinks that it’s cute. “There’s nothing for me there.”

“Then where are you moving to?”

Billy shrugs. He tries to think of something eloquent to say, but the words don’t want to come out, and Steve doesn’t bug him about it.

*

There’s a few times over the course of the next few weeks where Billy tries to explain what home means to him. There’s a lot of words and ideas in his mind that he can’t quite pull together, at least not on the fly, which is why he eventually settles on writing Steve a note. He gives him the note on a night that they park the Beemer next to the quarry, and sits in the backseat of the car with him, head on his shoulder, while he reads it in the dim yellow overhead light.

  


_Steve_

  


_You asked if California is home for me. It_ _’s not. It hasn’t been for a while. I don’t know when that changed but it did and I figured out why._

_Home isn_ _’t a place for me. I know if I went back to California it wouldn’t feel like home. I don’t have any friends or family out there, not anymore, and the only memories I have of it aren’t exactly great ones. I miss the beaches and shit and I miss not looking like an albino mole rat but a pretty beach isn’t home anymore._

_There was absolutely a time where if you would have asked me what home was, I would have said_ _‘California’ without batting an eyelash because since coming to Hawkins, for the longest time, that’s what home was in my head. Warm beaches, cold water, tanned skin, piss warm cans of PBR and pretty boys to keep me company._

_It was a few months ago, but we were kissing while that one Eagles song played and I thought to myself that being with you felt like coming home from work after a long day and when you asked me if California is home to me I said no because home isn_ _’t a place._

_You_ _’re asleep while I’m writing this. You’re snoring and drooling onto one of my pillows and somehow you take up damn near the whole fucking bed and I’m afraid of waking you up by getting back into bed so I’m on the floor using my lighter to see what I’m writing and I gotta say — I’m home. There isn’t a single place in this world that I’d rather be right now. I don’t give a shit if I’m stuck in Hawkins until we’re both old and cranky and complaining about the neighbor kids kicking over our garbage can, all I know is that as long as I’m with you then I’m home._

_Which is why, firstly, I want to ask you to be my boyfriend._

_Or partner or lover or whatever else because somehow boyfriend doesn_ _’t quite cut it and maybe that’s why I’ve taken five months to actually get around to asking you that, if not for fear of rejection. Even if this blows up in our faces in a month or something I still want to have the chance to at least try because you’re special and I really can’t believe I’m asking King Steve, Lord of Bitches, to be my boyfriend right now. Jesus._

_I can_ _’t promise I’m going to be a good boyfriend or even an okay one, and I don’t even know if I’m worthy enough to be your boyfriend, but I still want the chance to be able to love you and to hold onto you for as long as I possibly can._

_Secondly, home isn_ _’t a place. You’re home. You are my home. I feel like that sounds really stupid. I want to move out of Joyce’s extra bedroom eventually but I’m not leaving Hawkins without you and I don’t want to move into some dingy little apartment if you aren’t there to be miserable with me. I know we haven’t explicitly talked about doing that stuff TOGETHER but I want to have potted plants and lazy Sunday mornings and shitty dinners over a dining table that needs a few sugar packets under one of the legs — I want all of that mushy bullshit with YOU._

_I_ _’ve never wanted that from someone before, or in general, but I want it with YOU, more than anything in the fucking world. You make me feel safe in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time and it’s scary but you’re just Steve and you’re easy to be with and I really, really like that, and I don’t want to fuck this up. Notes aren’t exactly the most intimate thing in the world but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to be able to express all of this out loud, and I don’t like being vulnerable like this but I want all of my feelings out on the table, so here I am I guess._

_I don_ _’t know when I’m going to give you this note but hopefully it’s not in five years or something. I’m trying to stop being afraid of being close to people. Or you, specifically. Sorry for the long read._

  


~~_bh_ ~~

~~_Willi_ ~~

~~_Billy Harg_ ~~

~~_Hargro_ ~~

_fuck it you know who I am and I shouldn_ _’t have written this in pen_

  


Steve’s quiet for a long time. He rereads the note a few times, flipping through the notebook papers, gripping them tight enough that they start to crease where his thumbs are digging in, before he’s folding them back up into thirds, just like they were when Billy handed them to him. He reaches forward, to turn the overhead light off, leaving them in the dark of the car, and Billy can’t quite see him, but he’s pretty sure that when Steve leans into the front seat, he tucks the note into the glove box. (He’s also not deaf. He can hear it opening and closing and can’t imagine that there’s any other secret containers in Steve’s car that he wouldn’t have known about by now.)

They sit in the back seat together, in silence. Steve holds his hand and Billy sort of feels like he’s about to overflow. Steve’s thumb keeps rubbing against his, in a half circle, and when he speaks, his voice sounds raw. It shakes and cracks once or twice but he says, “I don’t think there’s anything I’m going to be able to say that does you any justice, Billy, not unless I write you a note back, and I failed English my senior year anyways.”

“You don’t have to write me a note back.” Billy squeezes Steve’s hand a little too hard, hard enough that he’s sure it must hurt, but Steve doesn’t say anything about it. “A yes or no would suffice.”

Steve kisses the top of his head.

Billy still feels like he’s going to overflow.

Steve kisses his cheek, and Billy cranes his head back so he can kiss him on the mouth.

And maybe he sighs a loud sigh out of sheer relief and does a little fist pump when Steve says, “Yes.”


End file.
